


The Missing Pentacle

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Detectives, Forced to hurt someone, Gothic, Hurt/Comfort, Knife Wounds, M/M, Pain, Police Procedural, Rituals, Sixties, Wiccan - Freeform, Witchcraft gone wrong, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Detective Sergeant Arthur Pendragon hates having to call in reinforcements from the most special branch of Special Branch. But sometimes there is no alternative. And this is one of those times. His commanding officer insists that they have the right suspect, but his commanding officer is an arse. There are too many oddities about the crime scene for that to make any sense. So, Arthur does the only thing he can do in the circumstances. He calls Merlin.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 125
Collections: Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 11, Merlin Bingo





	The Missing Pentacle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my h/c bingo February 2021 amnesty challenge card. Prompts: knife wounds/lacerations; ritualized pain/injury; falling; wild card (forced to hurt somebody)  
> Also fulfils the “detective” square on my merlin bingo card. Huge thanks to the wonderful Tari_Sue and Clea2011 for the whip-fast beta turnaround!  
> Warnings: This fic is set in 1960s London and references era-typical attitudes towards race and sexuality. In addition, it deals with ritual pain, trauma and coercion (of a secondary character).

Detective Sergeant Arthur Pendragon turns the weapon over in his hand. The odd carvings along the blade gleam. They’ve arrested someone for the murder, and the DI is convinced they have the right man. But there’s something off about the case. Which is why he and the DI are here, arguing their corners to the Detective Chief Superintendent like a pair of school children.

“What I don’t understand is, why would a blacksmith make a dagger like this and then use it to kill his neighbour?” Arthur says, articulating his discomfort out loud. “What’s the motive?”

Detective Inspector Cenred King shrugs and leans back in his chair. He regards Arthur through disapproving eyes. “Who knows with these people?” 

“What do you mean, _these people_?” Although Arthur knows full well what the DI means, it makes his hackles rise. 

“You know what I mean,” says King with a shrug. “West Indians.” 

“With respect, _sir_. It’s nineteen sixty-eight, not eighteen-sixty-nine!” Arthur rolls his eyes. “We can’t just make assumptions about whole groups of people because of outdated, racist notions. The world has changed.” 

God. His DI drives him insane. Arthur has encountered many West Indians – kind, generous people, in the main. Decent, hard working men and women like any other, who want to keep out of trouble, and be treated fairly, like everyone else. And in all his dealings with their communities, he has never encountered anything remotely like this case. No, in his experience, this sort of disturbing mixture of witchcraft and violence is more the domain of upper-middle class white people, emotionally scarred by their experiences in English boarding schools. 

“Arthur, King has a point," says says Detective Chief Superintendent Uther Pendragon. "You are young and new to the force. You were not at Notting Hill ten years ago for the riots. I was!” He knocks ash out of the bowl of the pipe into the ashtray. 

“Yes,” acknowledges Arthur. “And because of that, you know that the riots were instigated by white thugs…” It’s an argument he’s had with his father many times, and he’s not going to win it now. But they need to focus on the case. If, as Arthur suspects, they have arrested the wrong person, the perpetrator is still free and the trail getting colder by the minute. “But returning to the case, sir,” he says, changing tack, knowing that he will not get through to Uther by pursuing this vein, however justified. “And the more… ritual aspects of the crime scene. It makes no sense to pin it on Mr Smith. He is a law-abiding man with no links to any of these strange… rituals. He does not strike me as the sort of person who would do this sort of thing. I’d like to request some more time to investigate further, sir.”

“I disagree. We’ve got our man, sir,” says DI King shortly. “I recommend we deny the request. End of.” 

Ugh. King is a pig. Frustrated, Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sir, all I ask is… just give me one day,” he pleads. “Please, sir. I am sure that we are missing something. We owe it to the victim to find out the truth. Smith had the opportunity, yes, but where is the motive? The means? The dagger had already entered the victim’s possession…” 

“Made by the suspect. A blacksmith.” Uther regards him through narrowed eyes, fingers steepled.

“But wouldn’t it be horrendous if the killer were still at large?” says Arthur. “Imagine if another victim were to be killed? We’d have the whole of Special Branch breathing down our necks—”

“You do have a point, there.” Uther says, with a frown. 

Arthur manages not to roll his eyes. Yes, that was a sure fire way to get through to the Super. Appealing to his better nature, no. But threaten him with Special Branch?

“Very well,” says Uther. “You may have a small extension in which to investigate further.”

“Thank you, sir!” Relieved, Arthur stands and picks up his jacket from the back of the chair, ignoring Cenred’s swearing. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”

“You have twenty-four hours, Arthur, and no more than that.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Replacing his hat, Arthur pulls on his jacket over his gun holster. Once he has left the room, he does what he should have done all along, but with some reluctance. He goes out to his office and lifts up the phone, dialing a number that is unknown even to most of the CID, and certainly to his father, but which has become not just useful but critical. 

This decade has seen a boom in the sort of… esoteric activity that he suspects has been going on here. And much though he does not want to ask, he does know one person who can help him to get to the bottom of it. 

He hates having to ask. Hates it. His whole soul shudders at the risk that he is taking. And yet, what choice does he have?

The phone rings several times before finally being answered. 

“Wyllt,” says a sleepy voice. 

“Merlin.” 

“Arthur? Is that you?” 

“Yeah. Um.” Swallowing, Arthur thinks of the victim, of the injustice that he thinks might happen if he does not act. He pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to speak. “Look. I think… I think… I need you. In… in a professional capacity.” 

***

Merlin is dreaming about a lost, terrified girl when Arthur’s call comes in. When his eyes open, the girl vanishes and the dream dissipates. But her panicked cries stay with him while he struggles into his shoes and coat, and their echoes haunt him all the way to the crime scene, a nondescript home in a run-down row of Victorian terraces in Notting Hill. 

“I haven’t had any sleep for days,” he grumbles as he steps through the cordon. “Couldn’t you deal with a case on your own for once?” 

Detective Sergeant Arthur Pendragon returns his scowl. “Oh, here he is, a ray of sunshine as usual.” 

“Oh, that’s nice, that is,” says Merlin. “You’re hardly a beacon of delight yourself, mate.”

“It is a crime scene, _Mer_ lin,” growls Arthur. “Not a circus.”

But despite his grumbling, he knows instantly that Arthur was right to call him. There is something happening here – something arcane that only his particular branch of investigation can help with. Traces of dark magic and distress linger in the tattered, mouldy remnants of the net curtains and glint behind the shabby, worn paintwork. The door of the house has been knocked through – by some over-zealous pillock in uniform, no doubt. 

As he enters the hallway, he takes in the surroundings – a typical home for the area, with formica furniture and bare cupboards. The magical aura that makes his hackles rise pervades everything, like lingering cigarette smoke. 

A civilian girl comes into the hall with Arthur, face tense and strained. Her chin lifts and she eyes him with some suspicion. 

“And who is this, Detective Sergeant?” she says to Arthur. She looks West Indian but her accent is all London.

“I’m Merlin,” he says, holding out a hand for her to shake. 

“Gwen.” She takes his hand as if it’s a fish or something and gives it a cautious shake. “Gwen Smith. Why are you here? You don’t look like a police officer.”

Merlin huffs out a laugh. He knows his appearance is against him – his age, for a start, and his youthful skin belie his many years of experience investigating such cases for the secretive and obscure branch of the Metropolitan police that he works for. 

“I’m kind of an arcane detective,” he explains, surreptitiously examining her for traces of magic beneath his lashes while he speaks, and finding none. “I work for a very special branch of the Special Branch,” he adds, lifting an eyebrow and waiting for her to reciprocate with some additional information about herself.

But she doesn’t. She looks away instead, blinking, her downturned mouth working as if she is overwhelmed. Which as a civilian encountering the sort of case that Merlin normally deals with, she might well be. 

“So. Is this your house, Miss Smith?” he asks. The name Smith rings a bell. But it’s a common name, so maybe nothing important. 

“What? Me? Oh, no!” She shakes her head and swallows. “I live next door. My father found the…” she waves one hand towards a door that leads to the living room and shudders. 

“I’m sorry,” he says gently, putting a hand to her shoulder to reassure her. “I don’t know exactly what happened yet. But I will find out. I promise.” 

Arthur snorts softly, but it’s just for show. “Just get on with it, Wyllt, if you please.” 

“All right, _Detective Sergeant_ Pendragon,” says Merlin waspishly. “Keep your pretty blond hair on.” 

He reaches out with one hand and closes his eyes, focussing on the source of the darkness that leaches into his fingers. 

“I admit it,” he says to Arthur after spending a moment with his eyes closed, hand splayed against the closed door, feeling the wrongness that comes from behind it. “You were right to call me.” 

“You haven’t even seen the crime scene yet,” says Arthur grimly. 

“Don’t need to.” Merlin grimaces. “All right. Let’s take a peep.” Hand on the doorknob, he raises one eyebrow and dips his head imperceptibly towards Gwen Smith. 

“It’s all right,” says Arthur, misunderstanding him. “The body has been removed.” 

“Still…” Merlin waggles his fingers in a simulacrum of his usual detecting methods. 

“Oh! Erm...” Arthur says, finally twigging. “Miss Smith, you have been most helpful. But there’s no need to—” 

But it’s too late. She follows Merlin in. “Oh, I don’t mind.” And then gasps at the sight that greets her. 

The room has not been completely cleared. The body has been removed but stains are still smeared across the floor. There’s a desk over by one window – otherwise, there is no furniture to be seen. 

“The furniture?” says Merlin.

“He never had any in here,” replies Gwen. “He used to do weird stuff in here. I heard screaming last night, through the wall, that’s why I… that’s why my Dad—” her hand flies up to her mouth and she shakes her head, eyes brimming with tears, throat working. 

“It’s all right,” Merlin says. “You can wait outside.” 

“No!” she presses her lips together, adding shakily, “I want to know what happened. I want to help.” 

Merlin nods. “These screams you heard, you think that someone was hurting the victim?” 

“No!” she sniffs, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. “It’s strange but they did not sound like a man. Too high pitched. They sounded like… like a child. Or a woman.” 

The centre of the room boasts a ring of some white powder – probably salt, guesses Merlin. The ring is about nine feet across (probably exactly nine feet, if the guesses he’s starting to make prove right). This circle largely encases the bloodstains, although it has been smeared in parts as if by something large being dragged through it. There one candle standing upright on the edge of the circle, its wick black with soot, but not burned far down; two other similar candles lie on the floor nearby.

“The victim called himself Halig Hunter,” says Arthur. “Fifty-two years old. Died of stab wounds. The murder weapon has been recovered – some sort of ceremonial dagger, belonging to the victim.” 

Merlin kneels on the wooden floor to peer beneath the desk. Sure enough, there’s a fourth candle there. 

“The suspect?” he says.

“The man who made the dagger,” adds Arthur. “The DI considers the case closed.”

Gwen lets out an involuntary noise.

“That makes no sense!” says Merlin, rising, taking care not to disturb the salt circle. “Why would the man who made the dagger murder his customer? Where’s the motive?”

“Exactly! He didn’t do it!” cries Gwen, wringing her hands. “I swear, he would never— I don’t know who, but my Dad would never—” 

Ah. So, that’s who the suspect is.

“That’s what we’re here to find out, Miss Smith,” says Arthur. 

“The crime scene has been disturbed.” Merlin frowns at the disrupted magical flows that are fading and knotting more and more with every moment that passes. “That’s going to make my job harder.” 

“We could hardly leave the body here for days while we interrogate… er… the suspect,” says Arthur, with a shifty look at Gwen. 

“Can I see the murder weapon?” 

“Here.” Arthur passes him a dagger with crude runes carved along the blade. 

“It has been cleaned,” Merlin chews his lip disapprovingly. It's an athame - a ceremonial object used in Wiccan lore. But there are no magical vestiges left on it. It’s been wiped entirely clean.

“Look, I had enough trouble persuading my Super to let me invite you to look at this case at all, _Mer_ lin,” sighs Arthur. He’s doing that thing he does when he has a headache, with the pinching of the bridge of his nose. “If you’re going to stand around pointing out every failure in the investigation so far, we’ll be here all night…” 

“All right, all right, don’t get your frilly panties in a twist.” He’s right. Every moment that passes takes Merlin further away from the victim’s experience. He needs to focus, and fast. There are magical vestiges in here – just not on the dagger. “I will do my best to follow the victim’s last moments. But it will not be easy. And I’m afraid – Miss Smith, if you don’t mind. Could you possibly leave the room please? I need total psychic peace in here.”

“Of course.” She gives him a reluctant nod. “I’ll wait outside.”

After Merlin is sure that she has left the room, Merlin begins his preparations. Breaking the magic circle with his finger, he steps inside and then closes it again. 

Ignoring the magic circle, Arthur reaches over to touch Merlin’s arm, his eyes grave with concern. “Are you absolutely sure this is safe?” he says in an urgent undertone. The gorgeous prat has a protective streak a mile wide. “Remember what happened last time.” 

Last time involved a very harrowing case that very nearly finished Merlin off completely. 

“I didn’t know you cared.” Charmed despite himself, Merlin grins at Arthur’s answering eyeroll. “And anyway, since when have I ever done what you tell me to?”

“That’s what worries me.” 

“It’s all right. I’ll try not to follow the dead person’s soul this time.” That had been the problem last time. Following a dead person through the veil is never a good idea. There was something horribly compelling about that bright light… the only reason he managed to stop himself was that Arthur called him back at the right moment. 

“Just… follow the murderer, if you can. Not the victim. Idiot.” 

“Teach your grandmother, prat.” 

With a shuddering breath, he closes his eyes to the immediate environment, taking himself into a trance, eyes closed. Slipping away from his own consciousness, he feels for the strands of magic, threads of other human consciousnesses that will lead him to understand what happened. 

“Come on,” he mutters to himself.

But it’s too difficult. The strands are knotted, faint, vibrating with pain and entangled. 

“God. I wish Gaius were here.” He says, frustrated, eyes flying open. He meet’s Arthur’s gaze – concentrated, intense, blue. 

“Why?” says Arthur, quietly. 

“There are lots of strands…” 

“Strands of what?” A line appears between Arthur’s brows.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” 

“Huh.” Merlin gazes at the ceiling for inspiration. “They’re like… sort of psychic con-trails? Like aircraft.” 

“Yes. You’ve said before. That’s why you’re here, right? You can follow them? Find out what’s in the person’s head?” 

“It’s difficult. They’ve got all tangled up, probably because of what happened here, and partly because the scene was disturbed—” 

“Not my idea,” protests Arthur.

“No. Well. Anyway, the point is that there is more than one magical signature here. And it’s too complicated and dangerous. I might follow the dead person’s soul again… and Gaius, he can sometimes help me to decipher which strands to follow when the magic knots like this…” 

“Try talking me through it. Perhaps I can help.” 

“Huh.” With a sceptical huff, but acknowledging that he does not have a lot of choice, Merlin closes his eyes again. 

“What do you see?” says Arthur. 

“Okay. Okay. So, there are at least two, perhaps more. One is thick, angry. Full of negative energy… there’s depression there. Self loathing.” 

“The murderer.” 

“I suppose so.” It hurts to look at it with his mind’s eye. “The other one is lighter, less self-loathing. More… innocent.”

“That’s got to be the victim,” says Arthur. He’s pacing. Merlin hears his footsteps tap tapping on the wooden floor. “And you say you can follow where they have gone?”

“Yes.”

“Follow the angry one.” 

Nodding, Merlin steps into the magic circle and closing his eyes, wills himself into the murderer’s head. 

_Exultation. Ecstasy. On the edge of transcendence. Just a little more. Just a little!_

“Have you got it?” says Arthur.

“I think so.”

_But she’s not trying hard enough._

_“More!” he cries. “Hit me harder!” He should have asked someone stronger. She is too weak. She can’t give him what he needs, what he craves, what he deserves! The pain must be more intense to achieve transcendence. “Use the knife!”_

_“No!” she says. Her hands tremble and she fumbles the scourge._

_“Harder!” he cries. He thrusts the athame at her, hilt first. “Use this!”_

_With a savage grimace, she steps forward and trips… the athame plunges into his chest… at last!… he is free! He is flying… finally…_

_He falls hard, the wind against his back, and he’s falling, falling, tumbling. His soul flies from his body and he screams in mixed pain/pleasure There’s a distant sound of screaming. The light draws him. Closer. Inexorable. Brilliant._

_“It’s okay!” he whispers and then the agony and the light consume him. He sinks into it, grateful._

“Merlin!”

_Abruptly, something yanks hard at his soul, stealing his breath. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He followed the dead man. The souls of the dead grasp at him, greedy for life, begging him to join them. He can’t resist. He can’t. They’re too strong. There are too many of them… He can’t breathe…_

“Merlin!” someone is shouting. “Merlin! Come back to me! Jesus, Merlin, don’t go where I can’t follow—” 

_I followed the dead man._

Merlin recognises the voice.

_“No!” He wills himself to breathe and pushes against them all._

“Merlin! Come back now or I swear I will kill you myself!”

The voice is closer now, and a firm hand grips his. 

Drawing a breath that’s more like a sob, he blinks awake, coughing and hyperventilating. He stares up into concerned eyes, impossibly blue, framed by blond lashes, patrician nose, determined jaw. Dirty blond hair like a fluffy, golden halo. 

“Arthur!” he wheezes, sucking in air, touching Arthur’s face. The stubble under his fingertips grounds him. “Arthur!” 

A gentle smile greets his. “Idiot. I thought I’d lost you.” 

“You broke the magic circle,” protests Merlin. 

“I’d break the circles of hell to save you,” says Arthur with such sincerity that it makes Merlin’s breath hitch again. His hand roves across Merlin’s body, frantic butterfly movements. 

It is hard on Arthur, he knows. Hard on both of them. To love so intensely, with a love that is still forbidden and frowned upon, even now. And to have a job that takes them both into such danger. Arthur hates it, hates calling on him. But this is Merlin’s calling, his vocation. To help victims of magical crimes like this. 

“I hate it when you get hurt.” The rose red pout of Arthur’s lips emphasises his statement. He puts his forehead against Merlin’s, cups his face. Lets a gentle thumb rub against Merlin’s jaw. “I couldn’t bear to lose you if—”

“I’m fine. Arthur, it’s all right. I’m fine. I’m sorry.” Merlin’s head is being cradled in Arthur’s lap. The stroke of Arthur’s thumb soothes away the ache in his head, leaving him at peace. He feels so warm, so safe. He never wants to move. 

Arthur lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. “You found out what happened?”

“I think so.” Merlin shuts his eyes and pieces together images of the place where he fell and he knows. “The other strand it’s… it’s a girl. She’s lost and terrified she— wait! I dreamed about her.” 

“Hmm.” Arthur’s rocking him. Hands smooth his hair. It feels nice. “Go on.” 

“She’s… Oh, God, she’s alive!” 

“Ahem!” there’s a cough from the other side of the room. Both men look up, startled. “Is everything all right?”

“Gwen?” says Merlin.

“Miss Smith!” says Arthur at the same time. 

She arches an inquiring brow. Realising where they are, Merlin sits up, swaying as his head starts to spin, mourning the loss of Arthur’s warmth against his body. Arthur rolls away from him, removing his hands and putting them into his pockets. 

“Um. This isn’t how it looks,” begins Merlin, searching for a way out. “Arthur was just… I lost…” 

“It’s all right,” Gwen says with a wobbly smile. She shakes her head. “You don’t have to worry. I understand. I won’t tell anyone. My brother is… he is like you. You know. Of the other persuasion. You know. Like… Not that it is other. Not at all. It’s perfectly all right. Oh dear. I’m babbling, aren’t I? But I just… I heard screaming and I thought…” 

“We’re not… honestly, it’s just…” says Arthur. It’s rare for him to be lost for words. Merlin wants to sooth him but he does not dare to. 

“I swear, I will never give you away,” she says.

Merlin hopes she’s telling the truth, because if anyone else in CID finds out about their… unconventional relationship, Arthur’s job is on the line. 

“Absolutely. Honestly, I mean it. You’re safe with me.” She looks from one to the other – from Arthur’s hopeful face to Merlin’s and back, and bites her lip. “It’s all right. I would never… my brother… you see?”

They exchange a glance. Merlin wants to believe it’s true, but he hates the fact that a civilian, however kind she seems, might have this kind of power over Arthur – let alone one whose family member is a suspect in a serious crime. 

Arthur, however, appears to have no such compunction. He nods and holds out a hand for her to shake, which she does. 

“Now. This girl, Merlin. Who is she?” 

“The girl – woman who did this. She tried to reach me. You will find her… “ frustrated he scrunches his forehead. His head is pounding. “She’s – ugh. I can’t quite make it out. A high place, it’s grey. Grey and wet. There are people crying all around. A rushing sound… She’s lost. She’s afraid. She didn’t mean it, it was an accident! She’s sad… there is danger…” 

“People crying? A funeral?” says Arthur. 

“No. Not that.” Frustrated, Merlin picks up the dagger again and examines the runes on it. They remind him of something – not quite magic, but a crude approximation of it. Maybe— oh no!

“Halig… did he call himself a priest?” understanding dawning, a suspicion he dare not yet name begins to crystallise. Merlin looks wildly around. If he’s right… he should be able to find… “Oh, my God!” 

Sure enough, on the desk is a goblet. Next to it lies a wooden rod about fifteen inches long. Both of which have been carved in the same crude way as the dagger. 

“The chalice,” he whispers, picking up the goblet. Vestiges of magic cluster on the rim. “And the wand. And there is a scourge too.” He grimaces at that. “But there is one thing missing.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Wiccans!” says Merlin. “Halig was a Wiccan. Can’t you see? Stabbed with the athame – it will have to be destroyed, Arthur, it can’t be used again. And the wand and the dagger confirm it. He must have… But if he’s Wiccan, there should be four elemental tools…”

Frustrated, he rummages through all the drawers in the desk and rifles through the items on the shelves, but does not find what he is looking for.

He closes his eyes and reaches for magical vestiges again. There, faint but unmistakable, is a trace… 

“She took it!” he surmises, running to the window. The trace disappears there. “She went out of this window and…”

Reaching out with all his senses, sniffing and listening, lifting a hand to touch the trace with his fingers, he desperately attempts to follow the trace. “It goes south,” he says at last. “Down towards the river. Those sounds… They’re not people crying at all! They’re gulls, seabirds – it’s a bridge! She’s on a bridge. The river is so dark, so far away… She’s in terrible danger. We have to go to her! Quickly, Arthur.” 

“Which bridge?” says Arthur grimly, even as he replaces his fedora and pulls on his raincoat. 

Merlin shakes his head to clear it. His pulse pounds in his ears. A crushing weight squeezes his skull as he expands his mind far, far further than he has ever tried to do before. His conscious mind settles on a bright, distresses pinprick of magic and he swoops in towards it, reaching out with all the reassurance he can muster.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers, as he closes in on her. She’s crouching, curled up as small as she can make herself. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. He should never have asked that of you. You’re going to be all right.” 

She looks up, startled. A bell tolls in the smog.

“Where is she?” Arthur is saying. 

“I’m not sure. I could hear a bell. It sounded like the one on the radio—”

“Big Ben,” says Gwen. 

“And it was foggy—” 

“Westminster Bridge,” Gwen cries. “She’s on Westminster Bridge.” 

“How will we know we have the right person?” says Arthur. 

“She’ll be carrying a pentacle,” croaks Merlin. “One that bears the same runes as the ones on this knife, wand and dagger. The missing elemental tool.”

He manages a brief smile before throwing up all over Arthur’s shiny boots. 

***

TWO MONTHS LATER

***

“Freya won’t have to go to jail, will she?” Gwen worries at her bottom lip with a tooth before biting into a french fry, which looks just like a chip, only thinner. 

They’re a taste sensation, apparently. Merlin has come to this restaurant with Arthur to meet her. It’s in a run-down street in Notting Hill, not far from where she lives. Curious faces turn their way every so often. The hub-bub feels exciting, and unfamiliar spicy aromas fill the air. When he bites into his own sandwich, the flavours explode on his mouth. 

“No. She’s a minor,” says Merlin, trying to be as reassuring as he can. He takes another bite, and chews with apprehension. His mouth is on fire, but he’s not about to admit that. “The judge will be very sympathetic.”

It was touch and go, but they’d found Freya huddled next to the parapet on Westminster Bridge and persuaded her to come and deliver a statement about her mistreatment by Halig, her uncle. The poor girl had experienced a terrible ordeal. Under duress from Halig, she had been forced to punish him in a bizarre ritual that he had insisted would bring him transcendence. Given his superior size and weight, it could only be his fault that it ended in tragedy. Plus, there is the fact of Merlin’s evidence.

“How will you persuade him to believe you?” says Gwen. “I mean, I don’t want to be rude, oh, God, I hate it when people say that, because they always then go on to say something really rude…”

“You could never be rude, Gwen!” murmurs Merlin between mouthfuls. 

“I can! If I want to! You’re just being nice! But, anyway, I found it pretty hard to believe and I saw it with my own two eyes…” 

“I have a rank, with Special Branch, you know.” Merlin shrugs and reaches for a jar of sauce. “Hot Sauce? What’s that like?” Taking the lid off, he sniffs it cautiously. “Smells pretty good!”

“That stuff is not for the unwary!” says Gwen, grabbing it from him and putting the lid back on, putting it back on the table with an emphatic thud. “Your rank?”

“Yeah, I’m a Detective Inspector, you know. Technically speaking I outrank Arthur—” 

“Not in any meaningful way.” Arthur glares. 

“And my boss, Gaius—” 

“Detective Chief Inspector Wilson,” corrects Arthur, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms. 

“ _Gaius,”_ repeats Merlin, frowning at the clotpole, “has a lot of clout, still, with the senior judiciary. He went to university with some of them. It shouldn’t still make a difference, but it does. When it comes to cases like these.” 

“I still can’t get to grips with the idea that there’s a whole branch of Special Branch dedicated to magical crimes,” says Gwen, shaking her head as she shovels another french fry into her mouth. 

“It’s a very small branch. More of a twig, really,” says Arthur, smirking. “A bit like Merlin’s arms.”

“Oi!” Merlin bashes Arthur on the upper arm. 

“Pathetic. See?” grins Arthur. “Twig.”

“Stop pretending it doesn't hurt.” Merlin pouts. 

“I could take you apart with one blow.” 

“I could take you apart with less than that.”

“You couldn’t hurt me,” says Arthur, smugly. He takes a slurp from his Coca-cola. “You love me.” 

Merlin presses his lips together. It’s true. That still doesn't stop him wanting to wipe the smug look off the handsome git’s face. With a sloppy kiss, preferably. Not that that’s something they can do in public, here or ever. 

“You’re so sweet, you two,” smiles Gwen. “Honestly, you’re like an old married couple. Anyway. I have to thank you. Both of you.” She places one hand on his, one on Arthur’s, and grasps them, beaming. “For making sure that my father did not get blamed for something that was not his fault.” 

“You did a lot of the work yourself,” says Arthur, stealing a french fry. “Wow. This is delicious.” He reaches for another.

Merlin slaps his wayward hand away from Gwen’s plate. 

“Married couple!” she mouths, shaking her head.

***

END

***

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, I'm not getting paid for this story.
> 
> This story touches tangentially on London's race relations in the Fifties and Sixties, but stories from this era and place are not mine to tell. I don't wish to talk over genuine black voices, but rather to amplify them. To hear more, seek art from wonderful black storytellers. For example, the cafe in the story is loosely based on The Mangrove in Notting Hill. Watch Steve McQueen's wonderful Small Axe episode Mangrove to find out more about the pivotal role played by this iconic community venue in Notting Hill's recent history.


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